


Love

by archeolatry



Series: Three Things Remain [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Dean, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Time, Destiel - Freeform, Emotional Dean, Emotional Sex, First Time, Human Castiel, Human Castiel in the Bunker, Like a Lot of Feelings Despite The Sex Acts I'm About to List, Love Confessions, M/M, Newly Human Castiel, Porn with Feelings, Sam Knows, Top Castiel, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, maybe a little fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-11-05
Packaged: 2019-01-29 20:32:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12638634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: "Right now three things remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love." -- 1 Corinthians 13:13Dean brings a newly-human Castiel back to the bunker.------“Hey,” he raised Castiel’s chin with his fingertips. “Hey. Listen to me. We don’t have to do anything tonight. You’re exhausted, I get it. It’s just...” Dean smiled and shook his head, as if evenhecouldn’t believe what he was about to say. “I just wanna touch you.”Cas nodded, and in a ragged voice, said “I would like to be touched.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is split into two chapters because a) it's massive, and b) because there were already too many time jumps. And if you want to Barbara Cartland this bitch, you can skip to the next work in the series without the smut. (But why would you?)

Sam drove.

Sam drove as Dean and Cas sat facing each other against the back seat, their limbs a messy tangle of denim and gabardine. Cas dozed on Dean’s shoulder, his face buried in Dean’s neck. Dean’s free hand hemmed the frayed ruin of his trench coat, clutched at his tie. The other held to Cas’, fingers interlocked.

Sam had so many questions—not so much of the How or Why variety, but of the When—though he knew this wasn’t the time to ask. Even glancing at them in the rear-view seemed like he was interrupting something intimate- as if he’d caught them naked together, multiplied exponentially. 

The brothers met eyes only once during the duration. Dean’s eyes were red, and his nerves were raw. He possessively stroked Castiel’s hair, hoarding enough touches and caresses to sustain him if this happiness were ripped away too.

 

Sam pulled the Impala into the garage—she’d already been through too much to leave her outside. Plus Cas was still passed out in the back seat, draped over Dean like a cheap throw blanket; he may not have been able to get down the bunker’s steps under his own power. _‘Poor guy.’_

“Cas?” Dean whispered, cupping the angel’s—former angel’s—jaw. _“Cas?”_

Castiel’s eyes fluttered open. And, much to Sam’s relief, they met Dean’s clear, calm, and aware. No amnesia, no blacking out...he’d just plain gone to sleep.

Dean’s thumb skimmed over Cas’ temple, gazing at him with all the love in the world. “We’re home.”

Sam took that as his cue to exit the vehicle. 

He stood nearby, waiting to see if Cas faltered or lost balance. They almost had to team-lift him into the back seat a few hours ago. Cas was sure-footed if not entirely sturdy, and, when exiting the Impala, took Dean’s hand when it was offered.

Again, Sam bit back questions: Did anything feel different? Did he feel the loss of his wings? Was he hungry? Thirsty?

He dutifully followed Dean and Cas, walking two paces behind, ready to catch either if they fell. If he was going to be the third wheel, he’d damn well better add stability.

Dean, for his part, appreciated the gesture, but took some umbrage to it. Twice Cas had collapsed in his arms today, and twice he caught him like he might shatter if he hit ground. Every muscle —every fiber— was tensed, waiting for that third time. 

It was when they were safely in the hallway that Sam lay a light touch on Dean’s shoulder.

“I’m... gonna...” Sam slunk backward—towards the kitchen, the library, any room but the one Cas and Dean were in—gesturing with head tilts and finger motions. “...okay?” He flashed a thumbs up and a smile before turning around and making a prompt exit. Dean swore he heard something like _‘finally’_ under Sam’s breath. 

“Sam approves?”

Dean turned to see Cas looking at him from under drooping eyelids. It was less a question than a plea. A warm smile spread across Dean’s face. “I think he knew before we did.”

Cas was all bashful sincerity. “I seriously doubt that.”

Dean kissed Cas’ forehead. “I _mean_ , I think Sam knew how we felt before either of us actually said anything.” He flipped through a mental list: “Sam, Meg, Crowley, _Chuck_ —” 

“Lucifer.”

The name made Dean’s throat seize. “What?”

“We shared this body, and he knew my true feelings for you. I don’t believe he made them explicit- though he often threatened to do so.” Castiel’s head dipped towards the floor. “If he had told you, and you had discovered it was him... If you had thought any part of it was a lie...”

Dean gathered Cas in his arms, bringing him close. He recalled all the half-truths he’d confessed as a demon, all the flippancies he’d uttered under the power of the Mark. Had it made his love for Cas a mockery, he wouldn’t have forgiven himself either.

His eyes were watering again. He hadn’t cried this much since _Finding Dory_. “We really are a pair of idjits, aren’t we?”

“It would appear so.”

A rare bloom of honesty unfurled in Dean’s chest. Hell, if _God_ knew about it, there was no reason to hide it from anyone else. “You know how long it’s been, Cas?”

Castiel hesitated. “Seven years, three months and twenty-seven days.”

“You _knew?_ ” A dozen emotions flooded him at once.

Castiel nodded. “The same way I knew about the Mark of Cain—something was different about you. It wasn’t until I was human that I knew what _it_ was.”

Dean blinked back tears of hurt, of confusion. “And you waited all that time?”

“Dean…” he began, “I could defy, and I could rebel, but there were oaths that I couldn’t break. Even for you.” He glanced at Dean from under his lashes. “It never was for lack of love. Please know that.”

A single tear rolled down Dean’s cheek as he nodded. Cas had probably suffered just as much, if not more. “How long, Cas?”

“Ten years. After that, I stopped counting.”

Dean swallowed a lump in his throat. “…ten.” 

“Once I laid a hand on you, I was lost.”

And to think how long he’d spent cursing Cas’ existence, debating whether the desire to kiss him or punch him was stronger. “Aw, Cas...” He cradled Castiel’s face in his hands and kissed him sweetly. “So what are we waiting for?”

He took Cas’ hand, leading him down the hallway towards his— _their_ —bedroom. 

 

Dean shut the door behind them, as Castiel stared blankly into the room, swaying a little on his feet. With slow, weary movements, he shrugged off his trench coat, throwing it over Dean’s desk chair. He did the same with his suit jacket.

It was only then that Dean truly understood the full heft of what had happened that day. The back of Castiel’s shirt wasn’t only tattered, it was burnt: charred gray around the edges, with two black holes between his shoulder blades. His jacket lay defeated over the chair, the thin white lining peering out from rents in the black fabric.

Dean had had a dozen angels pop in and out of him like a revolving door and was bone-tired because of it. Castiel had had his grace purged from the inside out. And losing wings that size must have thrown off his whole equilibrium. No wonder the guy was a zombie.

Castiel fumbled with his shirt, his fingers finding no purchase on the buttons. They were too small for his dull senses. He seemed to be nodding off on his feet. 

Dean wheeled around to face him, placing a hand on Cas’ chest. “Let me.” His voice was low and wanting.

“Dean...” He hung his head. “I’m sorry, but I—” 

“Hey,” he raised Castiel’s chin with his fingertips. “Hey. Listen to me. We don’t have to do anything tonight. You’re exhausted, I get it. It’s just...” Dean smiled and shook his head, as if even _he_ couldn’t believe what he was about to say. “I just wanna touch you.”

Cas nodded, and in a ragged voice, said “I would like to be touched.”

Dean took ahold of Cas’ tie—something he’d dreamt of doing a thousand times—and towed him in for a kiss. The ease of it all, the faint but present pressure kissing back...it felt too easy. Too good to be real.

He picked at the knot, loosening it, and let it fall on either side of Cas’ chest. He patiently undid the buttons that had slipped out of Castiel’s grasp like the shirt wasn’t already torn and frayed beyond saving. The tie Dean threw over the chair; the tie could be saved. The shirt was pushed off Castiel’s shoulders with due reverence, down the thick biceps he didn’t even know Cas had. He rested his hands on Cas’ hips, pulling fabric out from under his waistband, and peeling off what was left of his undershirt.

Dean took a half-step back, admiring his handiwork. Cas was all taut muscle, broad-shouldered and thick-waisted. Nearly hairless save for the dusting on his forearms and few dark wisps descending from his navel and into his slacks. A sudden gush of blood flowed to Dean’s loins, and settled there heavily. (A little guilt followed after, making a home in his gut.) He wanted to kiss and caress every last inch. He wanted to rasp his tongue and teeth across each burgundy-colored nipple to see what sounds could be wrenched from that pouting mouth. Dean bit at his own lip instead.

Castiel’s fingers crept at the hem of Dean’s t-shirt, gathering it into two loose handfuls and pulling it upwards. It stayed rucked at his armpits until Dean could swing his flannel overshirt off and see that the rest of it came off over his head.

Rather than staring, as Dean did, Castiel closed the distance between them; reaching out for Dean’s hips with those big bear paws of his, sliding his hands along the muscles of Dean’s back. They met skin to skin and eye to eye, sending a dull current through their points of contact. Glazed and sleepy as they were, there was still a distant hunger in Castiel’s eyes. 

Dean sighed the junction of Cas' neck and shoulder, trying to tamp down his desires. He could do this. He could undress Cas because Cas couldn’t undress himself. He’d take off Cas’ pants and socks, and put him in their bed to _sleep_. Once that was done...well, he could take care of himself if he needed to. He caught his own hands trembling as he reached for the single button at Castiel's fly. 

It was all done with some delicacy. Dean had never gone out of his way to make undressing a lover as clinical and un-sexy as possible, yet he managed to unzip Cas’ pants without brushing against anything, and splay them open to reveal…boxers. White cotton old-man boxers.

The tension in the room dissipated as he swallowed the laughter rising in his throat. Cas’ arms tight around him now seemed less about passion and more about staying upright. This he could work with. Dean lead Castiel to what would be his side of their bed, easing him into a sit before getting on one knee to remove Cas’ socks. 

The unfortunate part of this POV was getting a good, head-to-toe picture of the near-naked man in front of him: the freckle above his nipple, the stretch marks on one hip, the tattoo on the other, thighs that were thick and juicy enough to bite. Who’d want to cover those up?

“Nice undies, dad,” Dean chided. If he could laugh about them, he could fight the urge to take them off with his teeth; maybe even forget he was already on his knees.

“Well, I _was_ somebody’s dad.” His face drooped in sudden shock. “Claire...”

“We’ll tell her, Cas. _Tomorrow._ ” Dean kissed his temple as he rose. “You need sleep.” 

A sigh of resignation rippled through Castiel. Dean was right. It had been years since he’d known the _need_ for sleep—the tug at one’s eyes and mind and bones—and he’d never cared much for it. He resented it now; to finally be so near to Dean and to have his body betray him. 

Castiel shuffled under the covers, unsure of the next step. Should he simply lay back and wait for sleep to happen? Was he a back-sleeper or a stomach-sleeper? Would Dean lay beside him, or...?

Dean positioned himself next to Cas under the blankets, now down to his own underwear and ignoring the way his pulse quickened at the brush of their legs. After settling his head down on the pillow, he opened his arms to Castiel. “C’mere.”

Cas blinked owlishly. He assumed he was supposed to lay on Dean’s chest—he had seen it on television, and read about it in books. (It seemed curiously confined to females, though.) He positioned his shoulder under Dean’s arm, hanging his own across Dean’s waist. He tenuously lay his head on Dean’s left pectoral, gauging whether or not to rest the full weight there.

Dean’s fingers reached at the nape of Castiel’s neck, lightly scratching the fine hairs there, raking his short nails gingerly between Cas’ shoulder blades. Cas melted against Dean’s chest, leaning into the affection like a cat.

“That really does it for you, huh?” he chuckled.

“It’s a preening behavior,” Cas rumbled, low and blissful. “It’s an indicator of deep respect and trust to allow another angel to touch your wings. It’s also quite pleasurable, though we tried to ignore that.” 

A question danced in Dean’s head as he continued his ministrations: were his wings always black? Was there a reason? Were _any_ angel’s wings white, or only archangels? Did they come in different colors, like with birds? Different sizes?

Dean had almost worked up the nerve to ask when he heard a low snore from Castiel. He looked down to see Cas’ features softened in sleep, his mouth drawn in a lopsided smile. Dean’s fingers kept at their work, in case there should be any trace of wakefulness left in him; he was determined to massage it away.

It had been seven years, three months and twenty-seven days— he could wait one more night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to let you know that you can hover your mouse over the Enochian words to see what they mean.
> 
> And a quick warning that there's an instance of mild (internalized) homophobic language. I hope it doesn't deter anyone's enjoyment. :\

Castiel woke to find his pillow had moved. His cheek rested on the memory foam mattress, still radiant with Dean’s heat. 

The alarm clock by the bedside read 10:42. PM, he imagined. It seemed his circadian rhythm was already off-kilter, or at least deeply out of sync with Dean's.

His eyes were dry in his skull, his mouth downright arid. He had slept away some of the leaden feel that blanketed him from the moment of his first human breath; the rest, he supposed, was gravity. It would all take some getting used to. Again.

In this mix was a little pinprick of longing, right behind his ribs. The stories would have it that he’d wake up in Dean’s arms. And while that was a highly impractical position for sleeping long term, he had quite enjoyed the intimacy of it. And the scratches. The scratches were fantastic. 

“Oh, you’re awake…”

Dean was back, still in his underwear, holding a tall glass of water in his free hand. He shut the door behind him quietly, enough to hear Castiel breath his name out in a sigh. 

“Sorry to leave you hangin’.” He set the glass on the nearest nightstand. “I just needed to hit the head real quick.”

Castiel puzzled for a moment. Oh yes- the john, the little boys room, etcetera. Humans had so many words for one place. He took the glass as if by instinct and drank the whole thing down in one long pull, feeling an immediate sense of relief after.

“You want another one?”

“I’m good for now.” 

To Castiel’s great felicity, Dean took his place under the blankets, facing him, huddled close in a way that had once seemed too distant to even hope for. He could feel Dean’s breath falling against his cheek.

“You sleep okay?”

Castiel nodded. “Did you?”

“Me? I didn’t sleep.”

His brows furrowed in his familiar way. “What?” 

“You know me: I just need my four hours.” He bussed Cas’ forehead. “Besides, you looked so peaceful I didn’t want to disturb you.”

“…You watched me sleep? ”

“More like I watched you nap.” A tiny, cocky smile turned the corner of Dean’s mouth. “I figure I owed you one.”

And with that, Castiel dove at him, determined to have the smirk right off his face. He cupped the bolt of Dean’s jaw, pulling him in for a possessing kiss. 

It was a little _too_ eager—all clashing teeth and pressure—but it produced low rumble in Dean’s throat all the same. 

“So you’re awake now, huh?”

Cas nodded, leaning in. 

The following kiss was better; slow and deliberate. Dean had been raining kisses onto Cas all night and had only weak and sputtering ardor given back—a feeling that clawed at his heart till it it ached. Now, he remembered the words; Castiel was affirming them, declaring silently with every kiss: _‘I choose him.’_

They were on an even keel now. Their hearts steady and patient, the worried static in their minds settled to a comfortable hum. They were warm and lazy and nothing hurt.

Dean’s palm settled loosely on Cas’ flank, grounding himself. Cas was real. Cas was not going anywhere. There was no need to cache and catalog these intimacies, nor to gorge on them until they filled the emptiness in his belly that was never truly satisfied. The idea was slowly dawning on him- that he could have this. This one, stupid, fairy-tale hope that he’d held to even as everything else went to shit. 

He sighed against Cas’ wide, pink mouth. _Yes, this_. This is what he had wanted most—to chain the comet. He could pine, and he could lust, but there was no thing, no adventure, that could equal the this quiet thrill. 

Dean was pleased to rediscover the feeling of stubble against his lips, his cheek. Cas’ was still blunt and grainy, and tickled when he nosed at Dean’s neck. He laughed weightlessly; like he hadn’t done in years. 

“Dean?” Cas puzzled, pulling away.

“Your stubble. It kinda tickles.”

Castiel ran his free hand over his face, as if he’d never thought about it before. “Should I shave?”

“Nah. You look good with a beard.” He then added “I mean, you can if you want to. You look good either way.” 

Castiel tucked his chin into the crook of Dean’s neck again, purposefully grating the stubble there to invoke one more laugh. Dean flinched and curled against the feeling, nudging Cas away but giggling like a fool. 

When he opened his eyes again, he found Cas staring at him, a plain and quiet reverence on his face. “What?”

“I think I’m beginning to understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Kissing,” Cas said. “I can see why there's so much poetry and prose dedicated to it.”

“You’ve kissed before.” Dean’s eyebrow waggled. “You learned it from the pizza man, remember?”

“I enjoy this more.” Castiel’s lips brushed Dean’s as he considered Meg, and April, and Hannah. “Actually, I enjoy this most of all.”

A thought cobwebbed against Dean’s mind; he spoke before he could choke it back. “Me too.”

Jesus Christ. This thing had Forever written all over it and they hadn’t even made it to third base.

They gravitated towards each other, laying nearly flush chest to chest. Two sets of hands savored each dip and hollow and angle. Dean seemed determined to experience every part of Cas through the pads of his fingers—the hard muscle of his arms, the cartography of his lips. Castiel's interest seemed not to be in minute detail but in the entire picture. He ran his hands adoringly down Dean's torso, greeting each rib like an old friend. He had overseen every cell as he put Dean back together, so to embrace the whole of him—the moving parts—in a way he had not before, sent Castiel into quiet awe. 

Blood recessed from Dean’s veins and into his loins again; a steady flux rather than a spate this time. He half-wished it away. His brain was slowly losing ground to his cock, and he wanted to savor this.

As if in answer, Castiel’s knee nudged between his bowed legs, pressing them closer still, so that the hard line of Cas’ member skimmed against his own through two layers of cotton. Dean groaned at the touch.

Perhaps he didn’t need to be _quite_ so patient. 

Dean snapped the waistband of Cas’ boxers. “Okay, Cas? First thing we’re doin’ once you’re settled is going to Target and getting you some new undies, all right? You’re too sexy to be wearing these old-man chonies.” 

And he blushed. Castiel—Angel of the Lord, he who had witnessed thousands upon thousands of years of human copulation—blushed. “You think I’m sexy?” he asked sheepishly.

“Oh, _hell_ yeah,” Dean grinned.

Dean decided to show him just how much he thought so; he rolled Cas onto his back, settling him onto a nest of pillows. The air in the room became heated in an instant, thick with need. Dean draped his body over Castiel’s so that they were pressed together in a continuous line, from the tattoo at his heart to the knob of his knee.

He inhaled softly as he nosed against Cas’ collarbone. Would he still have that angelic scent of petrichor and feathers? Or would that devolve into something more terrestrial? (The scent of Hippie Cas danced through his senses, and Dean wondered how his own former angel felt about the smell of sandalwood.) He began to plant a line of humid kisses, starting at Cas’ right shoulder, and got a litany of faint sighs in his ear. 

Castiel caressed Dean’s arms, his square shoulders; the thigh between his own. This feeling- was it remnants of his own grace sparking under his fingertips, rising to meet them? Was it simply the thrill of human contact?

He boldly swept a hand over the curve of Dean’s ass, digging into the flesh with five fingers. 

“Mmnf, _Cas_...”

Yes, Castiel decided, it was human and carnal, and it was perfect. 

Dean nibbled at the soft skin of Cas’ neck- not hard enough to leave marks, but enough to claim and to fetter. It was this careful consideration that stopped Cas’ wandering hands, and made him bare his throat in offering. Dean’s hand immediately flew to Castiel’s nape—that intimate, pleasurable spot—and felt his entire body relax into the touch. 

Dean chanced a look at Cas: supine on the mattress, cheeks flushed with heat, those holy blue eyes radiating love and trust. He was absolutely beautiful.

_“I can’t call him that.”_ Only yesterday Cas was an ageless, sexless, genderless ball of celestial light. He didn’t have a lifetime’s baggage built up behind one word. Dean scolded himself: _“Don’t fuck this up for him too."_

He met Castiel’s gaze from underneath his eyelashes. “You’re beautiful, Cas.” 

Castiel moved to cradle Dean’s face; to stroke his temples and cheekbones with his thumbs. To sweep at the seam of Dean’s kiss-swollen lips. What praise there was in that simple touch. He wiped those thumbs across Dean’s brow and the last of the tension there fell loose. 

A wave of love flooded Dean, along with an ebb of jealousy. This was _his_ Cas. _His_ to have, _his_ to worship. That reaper—she didn’t love him like this. She may have nuzzled his neck and pinched his nipples, but she could not traced her lips over his tattoo while thumbing his hipbones. She wouldn’t have kissed the creases of his inner thighs. 

Cas had never been touched like he was loved. Dean was determined to remedy that; to kiss away even the ghost of her. 

His mouth followed the long cord of Castiel’s neck up to the hinge of his jaw; it had the benefit of bringing his ear closer to the heavy, longing breaths slipping from his angel. He reclaimed the territory with warm, wanton, open lips, and with a row of kisses along his left shoulder to match. His tongue darted at the notch of Cas’ thoat, producing a deeper moan. 

Would Castiel take on familiar expressions—the tilt of his head, the furrowed 'v' between his brows—while he pleasured him, or would he discover new ones? _Human_ ones? 

A nip at Cas’ ear sent a tremor rolling across his body. _“Dean.”_

Dean immediately committed the spots to memory, and set to exploring once again. His calloused fingers blazed trails for his lips to follow, earning him gasps and sighs. 

Castiel, for his part, drank in every touch. His skin was on fire, his heart set to burst. All the songs, all the sonnets, all the Henry Miller and Jackie Collins in his head couldn’t compare to this. He had had sex before—this was making love, with all the term implied. If his grace had ever dulled him to a single one of these sensations, he would be rid of it again in a heartbeat, ad infinitum. 

His beloved, his righteous man, was venerating him with every touch. So good that a small part of him wanted to cry blasphemy, as the words of his former brothers and sisters echoed in his head: _Rebel. Murderer. **Oathbreaker.**_

He tugged at Dean’s hair, leading him up so that their mouths could meet again. He wanted more— _so much more_ —but kissing was safe, and holy. 

Dean drew away as he realized Castiel was trembling. 

“Cas…?” He locked eyes with his lover. “Cas, are you okay?” 

Castiel nodded with the slightest incline of his head. 

“Like I told you before, we don’t have to do anything tonight.” Fingers flitted over Castiel’s hip bones. “If you wanna stop—” 

“Don’t stop,” he murmured. 

“Cas, look at me.” He did. Dean’s pupils were blown with lust, his lips dewy with spit and sweat. “If you’re not ready, we’ve got time. Say the word and we’re done for tonight. Otherwise I need to know I’ve got a green light here, okay?” He swallowed audibly. “I need you to tell me what you want.” 

“More.” Castiel desperately smashed their lips together. “ _More_ , Dean. Please.” And to double down, his hand glided over Dean’s soft belly and cradled his cock. 

“Fuck, _Cas…_ ” Dean’s already gruff voice dropped an octave. He sat astride Castiel’s leg and crooked his fingers into the hideous boxers. “These are coming off _right now_.” 

Castiel canted his hips as Dean removed the offending underwear in one smooth motion, pulling them down over his ankles and tossing them away. 

_“Damn.”_

Cas was noticeably shorter but considerably thicker. Not that Dean had heard any complaints about his own equipment, but if he had a .45-70 round, Cas was a 12 gauge filled with rock salt. Cut, with a slight upward curve. His balls looked like a mouthful by themselves. The whole of it was framed by a dusting of dark black hair. 

Just, _damn_.

He sighed loudly as he took in the uncensored view. Had he known that this gorgeous body was underneath that too-large suit he would have had an even more difficult seven years; a little part of him considered it a reward for his patience. 

Cas’ hands flew to Dean’s hips, tugging at his boxer-briefs. “Now you.” 

Dean let Cas do the work, only sparing a finger to guide the elastic away from the erection standing straight and proud against his belly. He hadn't been this maddeningly hard since he was a teenager. They both worked them down Dean's thighs in a clumsy relay before leaving them to pool on the bedroom floor. 

In contrast to the boldness he’d exhibited only moments before, Castiel’s grip on Dean was remarkably trepid. He settled the shaft against his palm and slowly wrapped five fingers around it. Dean swallowed a whine. There was just enough friction in that loose fist to keep it on the right side of pain. 

Dean took Cas’ cock in hand—far less haltingly than his own had been—running his thumb along the length of the vein. Castiel’s eyes shut up tight, his mouth a perfect **O**. Dean teased at the junction of shaft and head, flicking lightly at the seam. A sound of pleasure and shock sounded from Cas. 

Dean licked his lips. If a soft touch drove him so, his own lips and tongue would melt Castiel into the bed. (And damned if he didn’t want to feel the raw, hard weight of that cock nudging against his soft palate. He’d never been hungrier for a dick in his life.) 

He hung over Cas like a prowling cat, straddling his hips. His mouth found the spot where he had left off and took a swerving shortcut over Cas’ nipple. A gentle kitten-lick should not have produced a groan so obscene. But it did, and the rush of blood made Dean’s cock feel pendulous between his legs. He settled against Cas, his erection brushing against the deep V on Cas’ stomach. Arousal was giving way to frenzy. 

Dean lowered his head, sucking hard on one burgundy-colored nub and then the other, eliciting sharp gasps and dry ruts against Dean’s member. 

He wanted to show Cas what he’d been missing. To show him worship. To let him know what he fell for. Humanity was tough and crude and often thankless, but dammit, sex was the closest thing to Heaven they had. 

His nose traced over every last ripple of muscle; shamelessly wet, open-mouthed kisses fell along the barely-there trail on his belly. Dean got closer and closer, until he could feel Cas’ bone-hard shaft beneath his chin. 

Before he could do little more than breathe on it, Cas cupped his jaw once more, directing his attention upwards. Cas rose to sitting, propping himself up on one arm, while the cupping hand led Dean back up for yet another kiss, effectively putting on the brakes on Dean’s momentum. 

“I _want you_ , Dean,” Castiel breathed. “I want to _know_ you.” He gave the word its proper biblical heft. “And if that means that I should” —he searched for an elegant phrase— “ _welcome_ you...” 

Cas’ blue eyes wide with lust, with the pleading in his voice, was about the hottest damn thing Dean had ever seen. 

“Easy, Cas,” Dean grinned against his mouth, “We’ll get to that.” A puckish laugh tumbled from his throat. “Believe me, _we’ll get to that_.” Another kiss, softer this time. “Tonight let’s go with what I know, all right?” 

“Anything,” Castiel panted, and Dean groaned. 

What Dean Knew was limited to a sizable toy he had lost on a hunt somewhere in Wisconsin (that poor motel maid), two of Lisa’s slender fingers one New Year’s Eve (champagne made her frisky), and a couple of wild weekends as a demon that would have wrecked a human’s downstairs plumbing for months. And Cas—he had a few hundred thousand years of study but not much in the way of field training. Dean figured that, between them, there was enough experience to make this work. 

“In the nightstand. Clear bottle, purple cap.” 

Dean settled himself on his back, one leg pulled up, as Castiel fished in the bedside table for something called ‘Astroglide’. He regarded the bottle for a moment, not recognizing this particular unguent. Last Cas knew, sweet almond oil had been the lubricant of choice for this particular act. 

Dean took the bottle from him, flipping the cap and pouring a generous stream of it onto Castiel’s fingers. “Too much is just enough,” Dean recited. 

Castiel shot him a look. His _knowing_ look; a ‘I-have-observed-more-coitus-than-you’ve-ever-had’ look. A bitchface that could give Sam a run for his money. 

Dean nodded in response. He lay down as Cas gently kissed him back against the pillow, mouths meeting in a placid dance that belied their swiftly beating hearts. 

The first finger slid in easily, though Dean hissed at the contact. Cas recoiled as if he’d been singed, the concern plain on his face.

“A bit cold,” Dean breathed.

“I’m so sorry.” 

Chastisement lay heavy on his angel’s forehead. Dean kissed it away. “You’re doing fine.”

Once encouraged, that one finger curled and probed and wriggled until Dean was moaning into Castiel’s mouth, until he wheezed out his own plea of “More”. With two fingers inside him he couldn’t even keep his head up to kiss. Cas’ long, wide, blunt fingers were tapping at his prostate while Cas’ thumb applied steady pressure to it from under his balls. Dean’s head thrashed around as waves of pleasure crested through him.

It was only after the third finger had worked him over that Dean felt he was ready. More than ready— _eager_. He felt so gloriously full even now; that thick prize between Cas’ legs might stuff him until he was stretched at the seams. 

“Let’s do this,” he said suddenly; they were the first real words to come out of his mouth for some time. 

“Are you sure?”

“Never been more sure of anything.” When he met eyes with Cas, he recognized the same look of care and concern that he himself had worn earlier; begging consent, pleading permission. Dean laughed dryly. “Seriously, Cas, if you don’t get inside me right now I’m gonna go crazy.” 

With one last glance—as if to beg ask the question one more time—Castiel’s fingers withdrew. He wiped them on the sheets in an inelegant, almost alarmingly human gesture. Dean wiggled into position- flattening his hips to the mattress, adjusting their pillows to a kissable, look-each-other-in-the-eyes height. 

This was happening.

Cas held Dean’s legs by the underside of each knee, spreading them wide. This was the part Dean hated most—being splayed and vulnerable. This was the part where the vile words echoed in his ears: _Homo. Queer. Fag._

As if to shush them, Castiel peppered his thighs with quick, soft kisses, and Dean sighed in gratitude. He was ready. 

“Real slow, okay?” Dean found that his jaw was quivering.

“Of course.”

He squeezed out a liberal handful of lube and quickly worked it over Castiel’s cock, then guided him to his entrance. Cas adjusted his stance by millimeters, lining himself up. And, with very little fanfare, the tip of his cock breached the first ring of muscle.

Castiel’s voice was both urgent and broken; the name came out of his mouth heavy as lead. _“Dean.”_

Dean inhaled through his teeth, exhaling in a long shudder. Prep as he might, nothing stopped that first spasm of pain and pleasure and confusion that came with receiving. He squeezed Cas’ hips —hard— between his calves as Castiel inched inside him.

Castiel groaned as he fully sheathed himself in Dean, and it was loud. Oh, but Dean loved it. _“That noise right there.”_ **That** was the noise he’d wanted to wring out of Cas for **years**. 

“Oh my—” Cas’ chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. “So... _warm_ , and—” 

Dean drew his thumb over Cas’ lips, quieting him. Cas seized the thumb between his teeth, his eyes slipping closed, his mouth surrounding it. 

No, _that_ was the hottest thing Dean had ever seen. 

His neck craned back against the pillow, his eyes rolling high into his head. He fought the urge to spit into his palm and stroke himself towards the climax he could already feel building in his core. It had been so long since he’d had any cock inside him—let alone one as thick and magnificent as Castiel’s—that he wanted to chase that clenching, fluttering ecstasy straight away.

He bit at his lip. There would be time for that. There would be time for the rowdy-rough sex that he’d jerked off to more than he wanted to acknowledge. Tonight was for the sort of sweet, almost vestal tenderness that they could never fully replicate. To allow himself the luxury of being kissed and petted and loved. 

He could have this.

“May I—”

_"Yes_ ,” Dean gulped. 

Castiel slowly withdrew, dragging along what seemed like every last nerve ending, until there was little more than the head inside. Dean held in a breath, praying that they’d used enough lube. And once more, Castiel sunk himself into the tight heat of Dean’s body, releasing his name in a hiss.

Dean groaned in ecstasy. Oh yeah, they’d used plenty. It would be smooth sailing from then on. His heels relaxed against Cas’ thighs, and he let himself be taken.

Castiel was so unshakably tender with him it made him want to cry. He didn’t thrust so much as rock his hips into Dean, only picking up his pace as Dean pulled him closer by the shoulders to hasten his movements, or as he was spurred by Dean’s heels against his ass. When he braced against Dean for leverage, he locked their fingers together before pinning each hand to the mattress.

_”Ol hoath…”_ he whispered in Enochian, against Dean’s open mouth, against the shell of his ear. _”Ol monons…”_ Dean knew not what the words meant, but Cas said them with such sanctity that they had to be sweet and good. 

He was supposed to be the one who _knew_. Cas was supposed to be the blushing virgin (or near-virgin, anyway) who would come apart at the seams under his ministrations. Instead it was Cas soothing Dean’ whimpers, kissing away his curses and blasphemies, until his name was a vesper on Dean’s lips—his _full_ name, spoken with proper veneration: _“Castiel.”_

Even when he found Dean’s prostate again—almost by accident—he didn’t change his agonizingly affectionate pace. He nudged at it, grazed at it, even when Dean was willing him to slam mercilessly against it with the full pressure of his pinioning hips.

Dean could feel the long, tacky web of pre-cum drooling out from his slit, sticking to both their bellies. And if he could keep his eyes open for for more than a few seconds’ time, he would see how the head of his cock was flushed nearly purple, looking just as heavy and swollen as it felt.

“ _Cas, **please…**_ ” His moan sounded pathetic in his own ears, though he was unable to care about it for long. His thigh muscles were shaking- taut and humming like a guitar string. 

Dean almost cried when Castiel stopped to shift his position. He was so close, so full. His ass was getting sore but he could pull through until they both came if Cas would just _keep fucking moving_. 

Castiel steadied himself with one hand on Dean’s chest, while the other wrapped around Dean’s shaft. He combined long, smooth upstrokes with his now deeper in-strokes— a move that made Dean’s every sense, save touch, go numb. There! His back arched, and his hands clawed into the linen. Stars were twinkling under his eyelids. He knew he was chanting Cas’ name by then; he could have been whispering it or bellowing it and he didn’t care.

He was clenching and clenching hard. And Cas, bless him, was precise as clockwork. He could feel himself hurtling towards the edge. “ _Right there,_ ” Dean panted, “ _rightthererightthererightthere..._ ” 

His orgasm arrived like a sucker punch, quick and strong. In one heartbeat he was half-praying for Cas to maintain his steady rhythm, and in the next he was spilling over Castiel’s fist in thick white spurts. 

Castiel pitched foward, a hand landing on either side of Dean, smearing part of Dean’s arm with his own come. Neither cared. Cas tried to keep the same rhythm but found his hips stuttering- staying too long or snapping in and out too quickly. And though the gorgeous agony in his face was breathtaking—his eyes screwed shut, his teeth gnawing at his plump bottom lip—Dean knew he was using all his reserve to be gentle. 

“You can let go, Cas,” he rasped.

Castiel broke with a groan, thrusting hard as he chased his orgasm. It was almost too much for Dean; too much too soon. He was still twitching from his own release and clamping down tight on Cas. He was beginning to feel lightheaded; he needed to remind himself to breathe. Dean’s fingers dug deep into Castiel’s shoulders—anything not to claw at his back. 

Here and there Dean caught the sounds being fucked out of him—keens and gasps and staccato grunts. Heard the dry breaths escaping Cas’ wide open mouth and ghosting over his. Castiel was trying to kiss him, trying to play the angel, the selfless lover, but his human needs were impatient and strong. 

With a sudden cry the pounding stopped, and Dean could feel Cas spilling inside him. Castiel’s body quaked with the force of it, pulsed inside Dean until there was nothing left. Castiel sucked all his breaths through his teeth, and released them all with a shudder. He pulled out of Dean an inch at a time, and collapsed in slow motion onto the flat plane of Dean’s chest. He rested his head there like he’d done it a thousand times.

Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel, who shivered despite the warmth of the room. His hands ran over Castiel’s hips and sides, down his spine and between his shoulder blades. He was still real; he wouldn’t fade like a dream. They had made love and the universe didn’t implode. He could have this. _He could have this._

It was too damned hot in there to cuddle, yet they lay together, swimming in sweat, coated in fluids, trembling in each other’s arms, sharing lazy kisses. Neither was quite as aware of their humanity as they were in that moment: the sloppy viscidity of sex, the rush of endorphins and dopamines. Parts that ached, parts that felt like jelly. Each could feel the other’s heartbeat—Dean’s in his chest, underneath Castiel’s ear; Castiel’s pulse while Dean’s hand loosely clutched his wrist—and lay wordlessly as they drifted into sync once more. 

Dean gathered a handful of Cas’ sweaty hair, grinning exhaustedly against the crown of his head. “Not bad for the second time around, Cas.”

Castiel’s weight shifted, and his eyes met Dean’s, round and blue and pleading. “Could...” His head dipped for a moment before catching Dean’s gaze again. “...could we call _this_ my first time?”

Dean’s mind was so hazy with joy and love and the high of the best orgasm he’d had in Chuck-knows-how-long that it took him a few heartbeats to register Cas’ meaning: his first time with someone who hadn’t used sex as bait. His first time with someone who had freely given themselves to him, and knew what they were taking in return.

His first time with someone he loved. 

Dean’s mouth gawped open; through it came a pained inhale, his answer exhaled out ragged: “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

Cas nodded, weakly but gratefully, and snuggled back onto Dean’s chest with an extra nuzzle.

He gathered Cas close. A deeper handful of hair; another hand curling over Cas’ shoulder, squeezing tighter, pressing him as close as he could. _This man_. Godammit, his eyes were watering again. 

The words were closer to the edge of his tongue than they’d ever been. He let them fall. “I love you, Castiel.”

“I know.” Dean could feel the smile, the movement of it, against his skin. “I love you too, Dean.”

Dean fell asleep with those words echoing in his ears. He fell asleep dirty, and sticky, and utterly content.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my first long-form pure smut piece in _years_ , and I've been writing this piece for a (shamefully) long time. So if you enjoyed it, please, _please_ comment. Kudos and recommends and [reblogs](http://archeolatry.tumblr.com/post/167158950032/love) are awesome too, but it's comments that keep fanfic writers going. Thank you!


End file.
